


too long

by sherlocked10097



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, I sure don't - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Power Dynamics, Sheriarty - Freeform, Smut, enjoy the filth tho, not an RP this time, this could end up a longer story, vaguely ace/grey-ace Sherlock, very randy Jim, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 00:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13399653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked10097/pseuds/sherlocked10097
Summary: They have an arrangement. It works well. But it's been too long.





	too long

**Author's Note:**

> (author note: idk if Sherlock's bedroom has a closet, but it does for this fic)

It had been too long since seeing Sherlock altogether. But it had been too long, too, since Jim had broken in, made his way up the old creaky stairs, and made himself comfortable at 221B. At least, it seemed like it had.

If there was anything charming about the worn rugs, the old sofas, the dust everywhere, it was only because Sherlock liked them. Or didn't care enough about his surroundings to update them, or to clean? No, there must have been some cozy fondness for the place. If Jim weren't careful, he'd develop a strange attachment to it as well. But no _stranger_ than the one he already felt, the one that led him down the hall straight to Sherlock's bedroom.

He listened for sounds of life all the while, of course. Just because John's blog said they'd be out of town didn't mean he might not run into Mrs. Hudson bringing up mail, or someone she may call to investigate footsteps above when there shouldn't be any. But the possibility of that could be lessened; Jim leaned over slowly to untie his shoes and slip them off one by one, straightening up and carrying them across the threshold into Sherlock's room.

Jim had been away from London for three whole months. The sight of Sherlock's bed made him a little heartsick, a little lonely, as much as it eased those very sensations. Always such a conflicting muddle. He could always text Sherlock, say he was back again, tell him precisely where he was, taunt that wasn't it such a shame Sherlock had to be out of town right when Jim had decided to visit...

But perhaps later. He was in the mood for some little more time alone, mentally as well as physically. The muddle wasn't to be frowned over, when he'd woken up in a mind to see it in quite a different way. He set his shoes gently down on the floor, surveying the crisply made bed, trying to picture careless Sherlock bothering to make it up.

The mental picture _felt_ mysteriously like a witting invitation.

One Jim found it impossible to turn down.

He ran the back of his hand over the coverlet, almost in appreciation of its smoothness before he'd ruin it with his weight. He caught peripheral sight of his own half-smirk in the mirror on Sherlock's tatty dresser. It only served to remind him he was here by himself. A sad thing, almost. But a freedom, too. Why, he could do whatever he liked. Not even for the first time.

The smirk grew into a grin as Jim slid a knee up onto the bed, the rest of him following until he sprawled on his stomach, stretching his arm out over one pillow. He breathed in the lingering scent of Sherlock's shampoo and cologne, exhaling a sigh. "Yes, I've definitely missed you..." he murmured to the _idea_ of Sherlock, ever-present despite the real Sherlock's absence. It was easy to envision Sherlock there, already on the bed, tugging Jim nearer by the hip, drawing him swiftly into a kiss. Sherlock was never tentative in his mind.

Then again, he wasn't in reality, either; Sherlock simply had his preferences, and his limits. They had an arrangement, so what if kisses weren't part of it? Jim didn't mind. He'd take what he could get, and that amounted to some downright perfect-for-them afternoons.

This wasn't to be one of them. Sherlock wasn't _home_ , was elsewhere doing things that presumably had some _point_. So Jim would have to make do with the imagined, more demonstrative Sherlock, of whom the merest fleeting daydream was already making arousal bloom warm in his gut. Jim nuzzled at the pillow like an appreciative animal, yet kept his ears perked for anything that might disrupt his enjoyment of the vague fantasy he wanted to sharpen and flesh out.

No noise, no footsteps, thus his mind turned to Sherlock beneath him, perhaps, allowing Jim to kiss his neck, sending practiced fingers spidering down the criminal's back then clutching when something felt too nice. Aloof, distant Sherlock biting back a whine in his throat, oh, wouldn't that be lovely? Jim had made such things occur before, or fancied he had. Could pull up from his memory how that sounded or, close enough, create it anew. Mentally hear a soft, low-toned moan, short but with telltale gravel, followed by a gasp when Jim spread his thighs further apart, pushed against the bed. A slow, sinking immersion into the fantasy. Was it too base and deplorable to outright fuck Sherlock's bed? If there were a comfortable way to do it, Jim well might.

But he was only a little warm, only a little hard, and all the silence and lack of life at 221b told him he could afford to take his sweet time. Maybe even stay long into the afternoon and through the night beside the dream of an insatiable Sherlock. The first time he'd come here, he'd taken much complex pride in the sheer perversity of the act. Hadn't actively imagined Sherlock in any way. But now that he had some frame of reference, had seen Sherlock's eyes go wide at shocks of pleasure, had known the touch of those glorious hands...

While he'd been satisfied more than once by Some, it was no difficulty, no crime, for his mind to conjure More.

To envision Sherlock's thighs spread below his own, Sherlock pushing up against him with a quiet grunt of effort made to keep his wits about him. Wouldn't that be beautiful, just once? Jim sighed pure longing out against the fabric of the pillow, not exactly kissing it but embarrassingly close to settling for such.

If he could just forget that he genuinely _missed_ the real Sherlock, missed whatever little attention he received from the same, he could really enjoy this. He may have been, anyway. Warmer now and harder, too, his hand beneath the pillow, balling Sherlock's sheet into his palm. He let it go only to roll onto his back, stretching luxuriously, but imaginary Sherlock apparently had a mind of his own, giving Jim little respite before covering him. A knee between Jim's legs, a hand roaming up his chest; Jim's own hand followed the thought, the thoughtless passage up his chest stopping at his throat.

The lightest stroke, the image of Sherlock's eyes boring into his own, and Jim shivered. Yes, this beauty in his brain was real enough for current purposes. But too quiet. Even heated, Sherlock would find something clever to say. Jim's fingers splayed over his own throat as he envisioned those pretty lips parting to speak, his other hand drifting to his inner thigh. Upwards, over zipper and button he worked slowly to undo. Oh, but what would Sherlock _say_?

"I'm almost glad this is what you come here for, rather than snooping."

Good, yes - but it separated Sherlock rather too much from the fantasy Jim had established, didn't it?

And then there was the fact that the words hadn't sprung from Jim's mind, but come from... _somewhere_ in the room.

The closet door slid open, revealing Sherlock in profile.

Of course.

And thank fuck; adieu, fantasy.

The surprise didn't do much to deter Jim's erection, which in turn had blessed little effect yet on his capability for banter. "The first two times were for snooping, then it all went to...baser urges," Jim replied honestly in as lazy a tone as he could muster. No, his heart absolutely wasn't fluttering to know Sherlock was here, and even if it were, no good sense letting Sherlock know it. He continued his course as if still unobserved, unzipping his trousers, licking his lips. "The blog said you'd be out of town for a week..."

"It did say that, yes," Sherlock answered smoothly, stepping out of the closet, sliding the door shut behind him. He was a touch disappointed Jim wasn't more rattled by the surprise, but he could've waited longer. What might he have heard, seen through the crack in the door? But after months sans contact, he'd waited long enough.

And the blog had mentioned the absence because Sherlock wanted it to, Jim realized. Funny trap to set, though, logistics-wise. The hand near Jim's throat slid below his head, propping it up. "So, what, were you just going to hide in that closet until I turned up?" _And oh, there's a fun metaphor._

"Camera in the foyer. One of mine, not Mycroft's," Sherlock clarified, not looking at Jim as he moved to the windows, ensured the curtains were pulled properly shut. "I knew you wouldn't come when Speedy's was closed, nor would you wait too many days lest brother dear send anyone to check on the flat. I was quite comfortable on the floor, reading with one eye on the camera feed. Laptop and book slid under the bed, I into the closet, and you...precisely where I figured you would be." He looked at Jim with a sly smile that belied nothing of his sense of victory.

Jim couldn't help but smile back, gaze running over Sherlock's lean frame afterwards. He never knew quite how any given moment of their arrangement would play out, but god forbid he failed for a second to keep up. "Mm, caught me red-handed..." Jim teased breathily, not even trying to conceal the slide of his palm over the bulge in his pants.

"An event which I hope to expand into the professional, one of these days," Sherlock reminded him, hands clasped behind his back as he stepped nearer to the bed. Bait set, trap successful. As to what he would do with the aroused criminal who'd fallen for it, Sherlock was rarely entirely sure. But watching was a fine start.

_Good luck with that one, honey_. "Sure," Jim snorted with a nod, thighs falling further apart, hips nudging upward. It would be a show now, for both their benefit rather than his own, and Jim didn't mind that a bit, not if Sherlock was near for it. "But until then..."

_Until then, I like the power over you when I can get it_ , Sherlock mused. It came only in certain forms, at certain times, and was gone again in a flash. He savored Jim's willingness and need like a rich dessert laid out before him. The power had to be used wisely, or at least alluringly.

Despite Sherlock's inexperience, he'd managed thus far. Jim alone transcended Sherlock's general disinterest, to a point. Sherlock liked seeing him like this, liked manipulating his senses even if he didn't care for any such favors to be returned.

"Until then..." Sherlock repeated, not yet answering the question in Jim's prompt. He bit his lip, watching Jim's hand move over the strained fabric before his eyes moved upwards. Deductions to be made, surely, about where Jim had been and why and how long exactly he'd been back before taking Sherlock up on his discreet invitation, but Sherlock was derailed from that train of thought by the odd, little shapes beneath Jim's shirt.

On either side of his chest there were three points, where only one should be. Piercings, had to be. How intriguing. " _Those_ are new," Sherlock purred. "Didn't take you for the type."

Jim followed Sherlock's line of vision to his own chest, softly laughing off the rude implication that Jim could be summed up in any which way. And was there a type, really? But he knew he had Sherlock's interest, now. Had given him a shiny new toy to play with, if he so chose. Jim hoped he would. "They are. Relatively."

"Did it hurt?" Sherlock asked, eyes flicking upward to meet Jim's.

"Only in the best way," Jim drawled, the sharply curious blue eyes even prettier than he'd imagined them minutes ago. "The first _breeze_ against them was..." Jim trailed off with a hum of a moan, emphasizing the surprising pleasure of the memory with a tighter squeeze of his cock through his pants.

"Heightened sensitivity..." Sherlock said wonderingly, correctly deducing the reason Jim had gotten them, and the hypothesis of any experiments he may care to undertake. He stepped closer to the bed, not to the side left empty but as close to Jim as he could be while standing. "Have they healed?"

"Mostly."

Sherlock hummed. There was nothing inherently fascinating about nipple piercings, but the fact that _Jim Moriarty_ now had them... "Show me."

Jim didn't take orders. Ever. But looking up at Sherlock, he couldn't help but remember a line he'd once run across, from the painter Modigliani:

_happiness is an angel with a strict face._

He had no clue what it meant to Modigliani, but to him it only meant Sherlock.

Besides. He had power here, too. If he ever decided Sherlock's continual distance _bored_ him, if their arrangement wasn't _enough_ , all he would have to do to sting Sherlock would be to say so and leave. He could easily do that, but instead he raised his busy hand to the top button of his shirt, and started undoing it.

Sherlock's intense gaze put fire in Jim's gut, and never left his own until the fabric was falling to the sides.

Sherlock smiled at Jim's willingness, the exposed skin, the straight bars of silver with balls on either end. He restrained his urge to touch them immediately. Jim had hardly come here and got himself worked up just to look at Sherlock. "By all means, James, carry on what you were doing," he said softly, taking Jim's hand and guiding it back down as far as his waist. "Don't mind me..."

_Don't mind you, what?_ But Jim didn't ask. Hell, he was on tenterhooks for Sherlock to make any kind of rare move, no matter how small; he wasn't about to question it. He'd gone from warm to burning in a short span of time, and if Sherlock had missed their games enough to actually touch him, in a _helpful_ way... He was certainly tired of teasing himself, the hand beneath the pillow emerging to draw a sample-size packet of lube from his open shirt's pocket.

"Came prepared, I see..." Sherlock observed, amused: Jim _really_ hadn't had snooping in mind. His right hand slid from behind his back, extending towards Jim almost without his own permission.

"Never forget what you learn in Scouting Ireland," Jim quipped, pretended not to notice Sherlock had shifted, busying himself with twisting open the packet.

"Don't think they meant that sort of preparedness." The detective's brow tightened, playfully critical. "And _bollocks_ , you were a boy scout."

Jim laughed softly. For want of a better answer he'd have liked to kiss Sherlock, then. But the humor broke some valid, living tension. Had Sherlock missed him, for moments like these?

Jim fell prey to distraction. The backs of Sherlock's fingers stroked against Jim's side, and the hit of a shiver shook his focus, made an excess spurt of lube run down his wrist. Both were lucky he hadn't bothered with one of his better shirts. "You know. Sherlock." He'd forced his smile back, swallowing thickly, blinking plainly once up at the other. "You told me to carry on with it, and you're sort of keeping that from happening."

Sherlock knew better than to take the tone or the words at face value or anything approaching it. Jim simply felt exposed, and was handling it as well as could ever be expected from him. "I also told you," he pointed out, leaning further down towards Jim. He saw the parted lips and the waves of heady, hopeful expectation pouring from the criminal, with the same sense of entertainment with which he'd considered the piercings. Something to play with confidentially. Confidently. Sherlock's face dipped low to Jim's ear, and he reminded in a low whisper, "Don't mind me."

Jim's eyes closed as if to combat the hot rush that ran through him at the caress of Sherlock's breath. If only every minute of his day were spent fighting and loving his fascination, in this potent form. Fighting it at _weaker_ concentrations was a losing battle. And Sherlock must have missed _this_ , the control, but was too distracted by missing Jim's work to admit it to himself. Or so Jim mused to try to kick his brain back up and running. He felt Sherlock's fingers guide his hand back again, and obliged all involved this time in freeing that brainlessly needy organ from its confines. The first real stroke was worth the pride lost in following even unspoken orders.

Sherlock said nothing more, his wrist brushing over Jim's bicep as he slid his fingers up his chest. He nuzzled just so that his curls would tickle Jim's neck, fingertips seeking a small silver bar. It was given a careful tug when found, then a more reckless little twist. The resulting gasp from Jim registered to Sherlock, in a delicious haze of his own, as singularly satisfying.

He lifted his head, wanting to see Jim's reactions, to watch his hand blur as he sped up his strokes.

_Do that again,_ Jim urged mentally - or had he actually mouthed the words? Sherlock seemed to hear it whether silent or aloud, giving the metal bar another purposeful tweak.  Jim shivered hard, squeezing his cock tighter in his hand. He watched Sherlock rise, step back, assess and dissect his actions and need, and tried not to mind it. If he did mind, he got distracted by noticing that Sherlock was hard, too. Quite evidently. Had he moved back just so Jim could see? Jim groaned, a sound of pure longing. He wished he could help, wanted to, but knew better than to ask. It made a wonderful point of focus, however, staring at the sizeable bulge, wondering what Sherlock's body could do to his own in the right circumstances.

These ones were pretty right, too. Jim wasn't sweating but very warm in his remaining clothes, the heat rising and buzzing through him. He didn't want to rush but oh, it had been so long since he could see Sherlock in person for this, and Sherlock's fingers were toying with the piercings wickedly now, twisting and tweaking the flesh of Jim's nipple every so often between the metal, the loveliest of sharp pains. Jim stroked faster, watching in cautious silence as Sherlock leaned close again.

"An experiment," Sherlock assured in a whisper, feeling bold as ever but more interested than usual in participating. And Jim was behaving so _well_ , he deserved a reward. Sherlock smirked at that thought, moving down over Jim until his face was just over his abdomen.

Jim's hopes leaped, as did his cock. Were Sherlock to go much lower...  
But Sherlock pressed a tiny kiss there and moved on, intent on the shiny piercings. A quick, closer look at the piercing confirmed it had healed well, so Sherlock gave it a swipe with his tongue, the metal intriguingly hard compared to the softness of Jim's flesh. Especially invigorated and inspired, Sherlock grazed the metal and skin with his teeth, drawing Jim's nipple between his lips and sucking lightly. Jim practically bucked beneath him. Sherlock chuckled softly, drawing back an inch, before pursing his lips and blowing a stream of cool breath against the skin.

" _Fuck_ , Sherlock...!"

"Hmmm, so vulgar," Sherlock taunted in mock-disapproval, rising again so he didn't fall onto Jim in his eagerness, but also to better look his pseudo-lover in the eyes. "Tempted to find something to gag you with, if that's how you're going to be."

The increased pace of Jim's hand, the blatant hunger in his eyes, told Sherlock he wouldn't mind.

Sherlock found the desperation encouraging as well as discreetly arousing. "But! Suppose you're safe from the urge, as I can't think of anything that would fit in your mouth..."

For fuck's sake. Jim found himself biting back a whine, but it came out a breathless laugh. "You are...the absolute worst," he sighed in obvious admiration at this fact, features lax with lust.

The compliment gratified Sherlock more than it should have. But there was no Should, nor should he worry about any, when this brand of play contented them both. He noted Jim's fervor, and couldn't help being curious how close he was, being eager to see Jim fall apart at so few touches. "Although..." he mused ponderously, hand rising to Jim's chin while the other still toyed with a piercing in unpredictable pulls. He stroked Jim's warm cheek, thumb passing over pink lower lip. Not much by way of obvious permission. Sherlock pressed his thumb closer to Jim's tongue.

Jim hummed around it as he sucked the digit in, pathetically grateful. With how near Sherlock stood, it was easy again to drop into imagining, that his lips were around something thicker, that the hand on his cock wasn't his own. Arousal spiked, a foreshock of warning, and Jim's eyes slipped shut to better enjoy the fantasy.

In the relative silence of the room, Sherlock could hear both their breathing. Jim's was louder but his own seemed no less labored, ignored needs creeping up on him. It might feel good to lean down some, rut against Jim's hip. Would feel even better, miraculously so, to replace his thumb with other eager body parts. But there were many reasons not to, so he didn't.

He watched Jim's movements like a hawk, getting every sense that he was close to the proverbial precipice. Sherlock would push him along further if he knew entirely how, but his semi-mastery of power had taken a backseat to heated anticipation.

But Jim's tongue flicking at the surprisingly sensitive pad of his thumb made a moan escape Sherlock's throat, and that alone seemed to do much for Jim, whose hips lifted from the bed and whose hand moved all the more fervently in manipulation of his own senses. Jim's eyes fluttered open to meet Sherlock's but slid shut again, as if he'd gotten a taste of whatever he needed there, and somehow the look prompted Sherlock to teasing again. "I might not even make it to taking care of myself, you know," he rumbled the casual confession. "That mouth of yours might make me come fully dressed."

The intensity of the idea that Jim could, and that Sherlock _would_ so easily- It was too much for whatever restraint Jim's mind and body had left. The orgasm surprised him, every thought and muscle freezing, suspended in the brutal moment of bliss that slicked his hand further and that fled, as all the best sensations do, far too soon.

It was almost embarrassing now, to open his eyes again slowly and smile dazedly up at Sherlock.

But Sherlock seemed appreciative, smiling victoriously as he eased his thumb back from Jim's mouth, gave both nipples the tiniest tug to shock Jim anew as he sought to recover. He was burning inside, aching for a similar release, yet didn't show it. Jim was peaceful and quiet and it was all his doing, and that was worth his own distance. "Feeling better?" he asked, lightheartedly sardonic.

"Oh, I was feeling just fine before you showed up, didn't need you to feel fine," Jim mumbled as his breath began to return.

If Jim's words were dismissive, the smile wasn't. "I noticed," Sherlock smiled back, gaze moving from the criminal's face down the rest of him. Maybe it was a pity, that Jim was likely to be soft very soon from now. Sherlock was feeling nearly interested enough that he might have taken more involved advantage of Jim's urges, this time. But Sherlock cared as much for Maybe's as he did Should's at that moment, which was to say, not at all. "I'll get you a rag," he volunteered, "Seems you spilled... _something_ on your shirt."

Jim rolled his eyes as he nodded, then watched Sherlock turn and walk somewhat stiffly away. His hand stayed flopped over his own stomach, careful not to dirty the sheet, and he knew Sherlock's excuse was...helpful, yes, but an excuse. Jim wished he could assist. Or watch. Or even overhear. Someday, perhaps, when they trusted each other more. Meanwhile, this, and whatever was now going on behind the closed bathroom door, was juuuust fine...

Sherlock wasted no time undoing his flies, braced upon the kitchen sink with one hand while the other grasped his erection. He imagined Jim's mouth combined with the rare subservience apparently only Sherlock could bring out of him. Imagined thrusting into the wet and welcoming heat his thumb had tested. Imagined wrapping his hand around the back of Jim's head and making that renowned, feared, really rather lovely consulting criminal _take_ it -

The self-abuse lasted mere seconds. Sherlock breathed harshly for a while after, willing his knees to quit shaking, willing himself to view the crass evidence on the blue porcelain sink top as anything other than time well spent. He cleaned it quickly once his wits had returned to him, tucked and zipped himself back up, and washed his hands before running a washcloth beneath warm water. He brought the cloth to Jim, who lounged carelessly. Sherlock plopped onto the bed beside him, all relaxed confidence after his bout of weakness.

Jim loved the telltale flush in Sherlock's cheeks, barely concealing a knowing leer as he took the cloth. "Feeling better?" he asked as he wiped at the edge of the shirtfront, then his abdomen where some stickiness remained.

"Mmm, much," Sherlock admitted easily, leaning his head back against the wall, folding his arms. What else could he say? There was little need to _discuss_ the satisfaction in their filthier interactions. And he didn't like as a rule admitting that he may have missed Jim the past few months, so that went unsaid, too. "I was thinking."

Jim had let the rag fall to the floor, and worked on buttoning his shirt back up. "What were you thinking."

"That you...needn't dash off right away, you know. You're welcome to stay awhile, if work allows."

Jim's hands paused as he blinked. Not in panic, per se, but Sherlock never offered that. Of course, their necessarily short times together didn't much permit lingering, but...And what would they _talk_ about, after...?

Jim would have to think on that, too, and answer quickly.

 

-   -   -   -  

 

**ONE WEEK BEFORE**

 

_Would love to see you but I'll be at a doctors conference for the week. How's Sunday aft_

John had only gotten up to pour a second tea before a bored Sherlock had swooped down at his flatmate's laptop, and read the blog comment John was drafting to his sister's invite in a comment above. Didn't seem to have made up his mind on the offer, considering he prioritized tea over the posting of it, but John's hesitation gave Sherlock time to be inspired as if from nowhere.

"John!"

"Yeah?"

"Write that we're both going."

"What, to the conference? Why?"

Good question. Sherlock tapped the desk rhythmically, trying to come up with a better answer than always having wanted to meet someone or another attached to the hosting organization. _Ah..._ "If Mycroft knows I'm home alone he'll make a nuisance of himself, I'd prefer to avoid it."

"Probably just checking in to make sure you haven't blown anything up," John justified Mycroft's concern as he strode back into the front room.

"As I said: nuisance."

"But you're not actually coming."

"No, no, I think I'll spend the time composing; little better to do as of late."

John blew on his tea before setting it down, reclaiming the chair after Sherlock had breezed away from the computer. Composing, rather than shooting walls and harrying Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't sure he believed that, but Sherlock seemed sure enough. Well. Alright, then.

_Would love to see you but Sherlock and I'll be_

But Sherlock joining him for a work conference would only get people bloody talking again.

_on a trip for the week. Case, hopefully turns out to be a good one. How's Sunday after?_

Sherlock smiled to himself as he heard John type his revision, and picked up his violin to lend credence to the story. Sherlock's alibi of absence. His _bait._ Certain criminals needed no running after when a trap might serve as well.

It had been too long.


End file.
